


Steadfast

by Callophilia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callophilia/pseuds/Callophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a twice cursed man and when he leaves behind his home to keep his family from harm he moves to London to either break the curse or die. Of course he didn't expect Sherlock Holmes to give him a reason to fight and a reason to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. War

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've read somewhere that these have to be done so I will do it here, the one time. I don't own Sherlock and make no profit from this. I hope you enjoy :)

The first bomb fell from the enemies airship with a screaming whistle. John Watson ignored the scorching air that filled the trench as he tried to staunch the blood that gushed from what was left of a young man's arm. He bit back a scream of frustration as the man shuddered violently and stilled, his glassy eyes staring up at the blackened sky.

He swept a cursory glance around the empty trench and hauled himself out along with his medical bag. 

He felt no fear as he ran through the battlefield from body to body. Not because there was an unspoken rule during war that field medics were not to be shot but because he was beyond fear now. Though bullets flew past him and bombs fell from the sky like meteorites, he was not afraid any more. He had been scared; the tremor of his hands, his frantic thoughts of home and a life he would not have were testament to that. After a while though he moved through the fear and found a peaceful state of mind. The blood rushed through his ears, he couldn't hear the bullets any more. His thoughts weren't of a life he might miss but instead of the life the wounded man who now depended on him might miss.

John skidded to a halt beside a groaning soldier, he recognised him. McCarthy. He was eighteen, he had a fiancé waiting for him back in London. John leaned down and assessed him.

“Stay with me!” John shouted as he ripped open the lads shirt. A single bullet wound to the chest. The small hole sucked at air and gurgled bloodily with each breath McCarthy took. John's fingers became slippery as he applied pressure to the wound with one hand while he fumbled in his side pouch for supplies with the other.  
Then he was on his back, staring at the sky as it darkened quickly. He took a breath and tried to get back up but pain bolted through every nerve and burrowed deeply into the marrow of his bones. He cried out as more bombs fell from the black sky, they shook the earth silently. Johns heartbeat slowed in his ears, nearly a whisper now, and he felt a prayer escape his lips as unconsciousness claimed him.

“Please God, let me live.”

 

Harsh light filtered through eyelids that were heavy and impossible to open.

John was awash with the tingle of morphine. He felt weightless and pleasant and couldn't, for the life of him, remember where he was.

Snippets of a far away conversation drifted by.

“Didn't think they were using cursed bullets.”

“We need a Wizard for this!”

“They were aiming for him, the bastards!”

They sounded so panicked and angry. He was vaguely aware of cold hands over his body, he found them soothing as they caressed his skin and prodded him gently.

Then a voice, that rang clear like a bell at night, broke through the panic.

“How far has it spread?”

After that, all words were lost to him. The caressing continued for a few minutes until the caresses were like nails dragging and pinching and hurting him. The cool hands didn't stave the heat that consumed his flesh, his shoulder was on fire and he screamed in earnest.

His nerves were burning but his veins were starting to freeze and his mind clouded over turning his thoughts simple and primal. The hands pinned him down as he thrashed and growled, he kicked out and bit at the people around him. 

Then the bell voice rang clear again and echoed through his being.

The clouds receded from his mind as his body fell limp.

John Watson was unconscious once more.

 

Ex-army doctor John Watson was lucky to be alive. That's what everyone told him anyway. He would smile and nod when people told him this but he felt numb. The twisted scarring on his shoulder was puckered and ugly but he took solace in the fact he could hide the wound.   
He couldn't hide the limp. 

The sympathetic stares sent his way made screams of frustration and anger bubble on his tongue, but he would bit down hard and set his jaw. The limp was a by-product of the curse that had been attached to the bullet and seeped into his veins, he wasn't cursed. 

He was just a failure. 

He would never be the same man again, he was half of what he had been in the war. As he limped onto the airship along with the other invalids being shipped home, he wished he were dead.


	2. Another Curse

Chapter 2 – In which there is another curse.

In the quiet of his old bedroom, John lost himself.

He would recall the last time he had cause to smile and all the smiles before that.

His mother and father had been proud when he had joined the army, his sister had slapped him on the back and teased that he might find that he enjoyed being with men during his five years of service. Now they all looked at him pityingly, not that they had cause to judge him. Harry had taken to drink like a fish to water, she could barely stumble out of bed in the morning and make it to work. His parents were beginning to hate each other, John suspected infidelity. He had no idea what had happened during his five year absence but he felt like a lead blight among his family; weighing them down and ruining their lives.

John shook his head, he had done that a lot lately. His thoughts would turn to darker things and his misery would consume him as his eyes trailed to the drawer he kept his gun in. His shoulder ached and his leg felt stiff, he needed some air.

He limped over to his small window and opened it to let the cold sea air of Folkestone. It refreshed him, woke him up from the haze that surrounded his mind and he decided he needed more. He threw on his coat and quietly left the house he had grown up in.

The streets held no maliciousness as he wandered past oil burning street lamps, electricity hadn't become so widespread that it reached the insignificant town of Folkestone, but give it time, John thought. The whole world would be lit up like a beacon one day and glisten like a star in the sky.

He limped towards the sea, relying on his cane for support more than he should.

He had only been home two weeks. It was only four weeks since he had been shot. He had recovered from the gunshot wound well enough, it was the curse that did lasting damage. The Wizard on hand, Maxwill, had done his best against the curse but it was something he had never encountered in all his years of study. John couldn't help but imagine the failed curse clogging his veins like curdled black ooze.

The moon shone exquisitely against the sea; the fractured silver against the royal blue granted him a calmness that he rarely felt now. The sand was harder to walk on than the paved streets but John managed with his stick in hand. He walked out just far enough that the sea couldn't reach out and touch his shoes before it fell back again.

The air was cool and still and he found his mind was as silent as the night around him.

"John Watson."

The voice was slick like oil and just as dark. John turned, startled, almost tripping in the sand.

Why hadn't he brought his gun with him? He gripped his cane tighter, ready to use it as a weapon. In the darkness it was hard to see the man but John could feel the hum of power around him and the cloying perfume of some heady, sweet aroma.

The man touched his fingertips to John's coat, right above the bullet wound on his left shoulder.

"I should never send a man to do a Witches job." He laughed. "He was so close too. Maybe with your heart in his chest he will be perfect."

John swatted the hand away and took a step back, the sea swirled around the soles of his shoes.

"What are you on about?"

The man stepped forward out of the shadows that unnaturally cloaked him and John could see his features; he was grandly dressed, too grandly dressed to be in Folkestone on the beach. The suit was crisp and cut perfectly along his body; black and not a wrinkle in sight. The man's face was carefully handsome and deceitfully youthful but his eyes were like black glass. They were an endless obsidian that made Johns mind conjure up thoughts of demons from the Dark Marshes.

"I'm talking about you, John, and that little ticker of yours." His eyes were pinned on John's chest, just above his heart and his eyes were filled with want. "Will you give it to me or do I have to take it?" he asked this as though he were asking John for the time.

John swung his walking stick around, aiming for the man's head. Quicker than he could see the man moved to the side and he tumbled, off balanced by his own momentum and his damn leg. The stranger caught him in his arms, chest against John's back. He held tightly, tighter than John thought a man his size could. His senses thickened as the man laughed against his ear.

"I love it when they play hard to get. A chase is so much fun."

John's legs felt like liquid beneath him as the sweetness seeped further into his senses.

"Wh-What are you going to do to me?" He slurred.

The man lowered him to the sand and John couldn't scramble away. His arms and legs had no strength and he couldn't even find purchase against the sand. A panicked moan escaped his numb lips. John lay staring up at the starry sky as the stranger laughed.

"Not what you're thinking John. No, you're not my type." He grabbed John's left wrist, his long pianist-like fingers gripped tightly.

There were words, but they were swallowed up by the rolling sound of thunder that came from nowhere.

His veins were fire, all over his body his blood had boiled and turned to lava flowing through his flesh. He weakly screamed, almost passing out from the pain. His body shook on the sand under the night sky as the wraith-like man hovered above him. The satisfied grin widened when John's eyes opened and they were black like his own. The grip on his wrist was stronger than a vice but he couldn't feel the pain as his body quivered violently.

John gave a shuddering gasp as his body went limp and he lay panting staring up at the sky through normal, watery eyes.

"The best part about that spell Johnny boy? You won't be able to tell a soul." The man patted John's sweat and tear drenched cheek.

The last words John heard before he passed out terrified him more than the anything else that morning.

"I'll be seeing you soon."


	3. John fights

Chapter 3 – In which John fights.

John woke with a start

The tips of the fingers on his right hand were wet with sea foam. The lapping of the sea had woken him up.

The changing tide was coming with the rising sun that peeked over the horizon. John sat up with a groan. His body ached, felt stiff like rusted tin. There was a coolness in his left wrist that made him pull back the sleeve of his coat.

“Oh no.”

There was a symbol there, under his skin like a metal tattoo.

It was shaped like a Christian cross, except for two additions. Underneath the crossing line there was a longer horizontal line and above the top of the cross was a strange symbol. He traced it with his fingertips and shuddered, the symbol felt solid and cold under his skin.

Another curse.

He breathed the sea air in deeply for a moment. Gathered his thoughts.

“I can't go back. I can't.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I need to leave! London! There'll be someone there who can help me.”

He pushed himself off the sand and didn't look back as he jogged determinedly towards the town.

His cane was swallowed by the swelling sea.

He ran past the school he went to years ago, past his long forgotten friends houses and stopped in front of his home.

The house was as quiet as when he had left it, his absence not noticed. They would miss him in the morning. The door opened with a low groan. John skipped over the stairs that creaked. 

He picked up his army duffel bag, put a few bits of clothing into it and, after a moment of deliberation he gently placed an old family portrait between a couple of jumpers.

He was leaving to protect them from whatever this curse was.

That doesn't mean he had to forget them.

He hopes, though doubts, he will return.

The front door clicked shut and John knew there was no turning back now.

He walked slowly, feeling unusually free as the sun ascends to his right. The early sun took the chill from his face. John felt excited. Apprehension at his curse was drowned out by the feeling of pure adventure. 

The unknown felt good. 

He thought he would spend the rest of his life as the cripple doctor.

He doubted this was how a cursed man should be feeling. He wondered if it was the curse that had caused this or if he wanted a new life. He wouldn't dwell on the thought lest he not be fond of the man he found himself to be.

He shook the cobwebs from his head and focused on his walk to the train station.

After two hours of sitting patiently on a bench an the train station John Watson boarded the first steam train to London.

He never looked back.

It was during the long train ride that panic coiled around his throat and made his heart tighten in his chest. 

He rubbed a thumb absently over the symbol underneath his skin, attempting to rub it away or warm it at least. The skin on his wrist was now red raw but the symbol was colder and shone almost silver under the light streaming down from the glass dome of St. Pancras. 

He looked around at the milling crowds of people from all walks of life, for if there were any place to be called diverse then that place would be London.

As he walked through the station his limp slowly took hold, when he finally emerged onto the streets he lamented losing his cane.

London is large with winding streets as numerous as veins in a body. John stood in the heart of London and wondered where he should go.

His eyes fell on one of the darker streets, it called to him. He knew to fight fire with fire, finding an expert on curses was his first step. Where else would an expert on curses dwell but down the darker streets of London.

He limped past windows that, at first, weren't alarming. There was an Apothecary filled with vials of every colour in the spectrum and one that was an impossibly perfect colour he had never seen before (and wouldn't be able to recall thereafter). The book shops he passed reeked of the musky smell of old paper.

As time ticked on the shops passed by, the contents growing more and more macabre. One window held a wax covered human hand, another held animal carcasses but was not a butchers. One window was blacked out but there were screeching sounds inside the likes of which John had never heard.  
A woman was leaning against the window of a shop that sold caged and shaking animals that John was sure weren't intended as pets. Her skirts were ragged and filthy with stains John did not want to think about. She grinned at him showing a lack of teeth.

“Can I 'elp you darlin'?”

John wondered if he should just keep walking but decided he could look all day and wouldn't   
recognise a wizard if he fell over one.

“Do you know where I might find a wizard?”

“You must be new!” The woman cackled. “You fink you're gonna find a wizard down 'ere? No mate, them are the reputable ones. They'll be at The Sphere. Anyfink I can do for ya?”

“I'm just looking for someone to- to- to-” John pushed at the words but his tongue turned to lead and his head throbbed while his chest tightened. “....Nevermind!” He span around and walked away automatically. When he turned a corner, out of sight of the woman, he sagged to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut. He ran his fingertips across his lips.

“I can't... I can't tell anyone about it.” He whispered.

He looked up and found he was kneeling outside of pub, The Slug and Lettuce.

John stumbled in; to recover, to eat and to think of his next steps.

He ordered a beer and pie with mash while in a daze, lost in his thoughts.

The doctor sat mulling over his lukewarm beer, wondering what his next steps should be. The Sphere. He has heard of that place, people gifted with Magic go there. That's all he knew and he regretted not learning more, none of his family have ever been gifted with magic, a dull bloodline throughout the ages. Why would he learn about The Sphere?

When the young barmaid arrived with his food her warm smile had him asking what she knew about The Sphere.

She glanced around the nearly empty pub and took a seat across from John, gesturing for him to eat.

“The Sphere is where you go if you've got magic and money. If you're poor you won't get in unless you get sponsorship but people only want to sponsor someone who is really gifted. Full of toffs I hear. Young lads and gals get pulled in at about ten years old. Finish when they're about nineteen. Go out into the world fully fledged Wizards.”

“What's a witch then?”

“A Witch? Someone who got their trainin' outside of The Sphere. Illegal but it happens, kids with promise but no coin go to someone willin' and capable to teach 'em. Course, if you're magic you've gotta be registered, 'ave tabs kept on you so they can pull you up for service for Crown and Country.” She looks him up and down. “You don't look like you 'ave a magical bone in your body. You're lookin' for a wizard? Man like you won't find one 'e can afford the rates of. Better off findin' a witch.”

The barman barked at the girl to get back to work and when John finished his meal and drink he placed a couple of coins under his plate.

The day wore on as John limped around the darker veins of London, searching for a Witch. Those he asked either shook their heads and walked away or scowled at him. One person signed the cross and spat at his feet like he was a bad taste they wanted out of their mouth; that person walked away murmuring about murders and death wishes.

John gave up when the sun set and started to look for an inn.

As he limped by yet another blackened alleyway he heard grunts and the sound of a scuffle. In the shadows there were four figures, as he walked closer his limp melted away and he began to run. He tackled one figure before another kick could connect with the man curled up on the floor. In the process John fell over the victim and pulled the assailant down with him as he stumbled. He elbowed the floored man in the gut and drove his shoulder into the sternum of another man. Hands grasped John's lapels and pull him up before punching him in the stomach twice. John kicked out and backed away when his foot managed to connect with the other man's knee. He faced down the three men who had gathered in front of him, one almost comically cracking his knuckles in a tableau of stereotype.

“You want more? I can do this all night!” His anger was vented into a war cry.

At the same time thunder cracked above and all three men turned tail and ran.

John watched for a moment, shoulders heaving. He turned to ask the victim if he is all right.

Instead he found himself eyes to mouth with a very tall and very dark man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, Mondays keep creeping up on me! I'm sorry to say I don't intend to reveal what the curse is until the end because this story isn't about the curse it's about John's journey. Honestly this is really like Howl's Moving Castle in that way because it doesn't really address anyone's curse, it's all about the adventures they have because of the curse. Hope you enjoyed :D


	4. John finds home

Chapter four – In which John finds Home.

“Are you all right?” John watched, a little unnerved, as the man looked him up and down with an intense gaze.

“I'm fine.” The man locked his gaze with John's. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John was flustered for a moment and assumed the man had concussion. “Sorry?”

“Which was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John froze. “Afghanistan. How did you-?”

“Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military, as does your army issue bag. Your face is   
tanned, but no tan above the wrist. You're limping now but you weren't earlier in the adrenaline rush , like you'd forgotten about it so that says at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, sun tan; Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“That was... Amazing.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course, it was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”

“That's not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

Both men laughed.

John held out his hand, “John Watson.”

The man regarded the offered hand for a moment before taking it into a firm handshake. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

Sherlock nodded and John picked up his duffel bag that had been dropped in the scuffle.

“As long as you're sure,” John hoisted the bag up onto his good shoulder, “I'd better get moving if I want to find somewhere to stay before night fall.” He smiled and began to limp away. “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

John had reached the opening of the alley when Sherlock's voice rumbled behind him.

“You're staying in London indefinitely. You need somewhere to stay that isn't an inn, you'll have no money by the end of the month.” They walked side by side through the sunset soaked streets. “I need a flatmate.” Sherlock looked down at John with a slanted smile.

“You wouldn't want me as a flatmate.” John knows his family could barely stand his post trauma disorder and his waking in the middle of the night and being irritable and disconnected at times.

“I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for hours on end. Would that bother you?”

John shook his head a bit unsure if he should be following this amazing man he just met.

After more twists and turns with short cuts between crowded buildings and through an outdoor market they emerged onto a more main road that was bustling with people making their way home from work. Carriages rattled by on the cobblestone roads and there was the distant roar of an automotive. Street lamps lined the pavements and flickered on as if lit by an invisible hand. John smiled. He was fascinated by electricity.

Sherlock ushered him into a hansom cab he had flagged down.  
“Where you headin' Sir?”

“Two-two-one Baker street.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? We don't even know each other.” They both rocked along with the motion of the carriage.

“I'm a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world; I invented the position. I keep experiments in the cool box, sometimes the tea pot or on the table or even all of those. I don't eat or drink when I'm on a case and I won't sleep much either. As I've already said, I play the violin when I'm thinking and that includes through the night. I'm not a sociable man.” Sherlock stopped as though unsure what to say next. John took in everything he had said about himself and decided that his gut was telling him Sherlock Holmes was a good man. A good man who wouldn't miss him when the curse catches up with him.

The carriage rocked to a stop outside of a three storey house. John slipped out of the hansom as Sherlock handed money to the driver.

“Mrs Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. Her husband got himself sentenced to death in California.”

John limped up the stairs alongside Sherlock. “So you stopped her husband from being executed?”

Sherlock looks over his shoulder with a smirk. “Oh no. I ensured it.”

The black door opens and John is introduced as Sherlocks new flatmate to an enthusiastic Mrs Hudson.

“How lovely! I do worry about you being up there alone Sherlock, the things you do on my tabletops.”

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“She means chemical burns, John.”

They were ushered upstairs and Mrs Hudson bustled off to make some tea to celebrate.

The living room was a mess, John looked around, eyes skimming over the (slightly rattling) skull on the mantle next to a knife buried deep in the mahogany wood.

“How long have you been here?”

“A week.”

“You've certainly made yourself comfortable.” John could see numerous chemical burns on the table in the kitchen from where he stood at the front door. The house is a mess but it feelt welcoming, even with the jar of human fingers, sitting on the windowsill. 

“Here you are boys.” Mrs Hudson walked in through the open front door with a tray of tea and biscuits. Under her arm was a dark, wooden cane tipped with what looked like silver. It looked very expensive. When Sherlock swept the tray from her hands she turned around to John and held out the cane. “I don't know what you're doing walking around without a cane but it will only make it worse.” When John started to decline she gave him a look that his own mother used. The look that meant there was no use arguing, you were going to eat your greens and like them. “It belonged to my husband. It's no use to me.”

John took it graciously and thanked her; it was the perfect height for him, the handle felt moulded to his hand. All in all it was a perfect cane, though John would have been happier without the need for a cane at all.

An accord was struck, John would be Sherlock's flatmate for an unspecified amount of time. His own secret plan was to surreptitiously find a Wizard or Witch who could help him.   
Tea that night was a warm affair, John laughed with ease at Mrs Hudson's recollections of her youth and was astonished by Sherlock's tales. He felt content here, though there was fear in his heart as he recalled his old family dog; the day before he was to be put down they treated him like royalty, made him comfortable, content. 

He could not forget the curse, a constant weight and cold spot under the wrist of his jumper.  
Over the next two days John found life with Sherlock a lot calmer than he had initially thought. 

On the first night John had woken gasping, covered in sweat and tangled in soft sheets. A moment after waking, light strains of violin music floated up the stairs and softened the harshness of waking in fear. He sat up for a long time listening to the music, melodies he recognised and some he didn't, all intertwined and flowing in a way he could never imagine or understand. He fell asleep to the sound of the violin in Sherlock's expert hands. In the morning he wondered how the impassive man, for that is what Sherlock was and John could see this clearly, could play such heart warming music.   
There were still moments that John would find Sherlock to be quite... unique. 

One conversation had led John to the amazing discovery that Sherlock didn't know about the solar system and its order. On the same day, his first day looking for a Wizard or Witch, he came home to find Sherlock shooting a pistol at the wall. Needless to say Mrs Hudson wasn't pleased and threatened to kick him out, when she had left John and Sherlock were reduced to giggling like naughty children. 

John didn't understand why, but he was happy here, like a cloud had lifted from his heart.  
On the third day, John realised that Sherlock wasn't just unique, he was in a whole other league.


	5. There is blood

Chapter 5 In which there is blood.

Sherlock was in his bedroom when there was a knock on the front door.

It was late evening and John had been perusing the bookshelf. Sherlock was still a bit of an enigma, he had books on alchemy, zoology, herbology, wizardology, demonology and a lot of other -ology's.   
He was flicking through a book of spells when the knock startled him, he quickly slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and answered the door.

The man on the other side looked impatient, his grey hair and weary face aged him a few years. He was looking over John's shoulder, searching what he could see of the flat.

“Don't tell me Sherlock's been evicted again!”

“No. He still lives here. He's upstairs...”

“Another murder, Lestrade!” Sherlock's gleeful voice felt like it was right next to John's ear. John stepped out of the way of the door and Lestrade walked in.

“Yes, but we don't want news getting out that we found another body.” Lestrade glanced at John as he said this. 

“This is my assistant, Doctor John Watson. He'll be coming with us.”

“I am?”

“He is?”

Both men were stunned into silence as Sherlock pulled his long coat on.

“He's my doctor. I need him.” Sherlock said.

“I could get into trouble just for having you on a crime scene. Let alone some bloke I don't even know, no offence Doctor.”

“None taken.”

“Anderson won't work with me, he doesn't shut up and his idiotic conclusions that he's pulled out of his arse annoy me.” John was reminded of a sulking child when he looked at Sherlock, desperate to get his own way. He held Lestrades gaze for a moment, a silent battle of will took place. Lestrade surrendered with a sigh.

“Fine. Hurry up. I'll be outside.”

Sherlock ushered John to put his shoes and coat on, as soon as he had buttoned up his coat Sherlock had grabbed his left wrist, hand clamped securely, but not tightly, around the symbol. At the foreign touch it warmed up instantly, warmth crawled into Johns arm and he only now realised how cold he actually was. As he was practically dragged outside he watched Sherlock for any sign that he could feel the metallic tattoo.

It was only when John looked at Sherlock's face that he realised Sherlock was talking.  
“-five so far now. Same killer, same symbols and no evidence or leads. I love serial killers! It's like Lights Night come early!”

John found himself smiling at Sherlock's excitement, this man who had shown nothing but calculating calm, now he was bounding down the stairs like a child would when they've just found out it had snowed through the night.

The night air of London was brisk and the night sky unusually clear. They climbed into the small police coach and Sherlock let go of Johns hand; the warmth lingered briefly before fading, giving way to the cold of the tattoo.

Lestrade knocked twice on the roof and the carriage lurched forward.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.” He held out his hand to John. “I hope you've got a stomach for the gruesome.”

He leaned forward and grasped his open hand in a firm shake.“I've served in the war. I've seen gruesome.”

Lestrade looked at John, really looked at him, as though he were as enigmatic as Sherlock. “I don't think you've seen anything like this, Doctor.”

The carriage ride took them to a side street, not far from an open market judging by the smell of rotten vegetables and meats. They climbed out and John found they actually were next to an open air market; the stalls were dark and empty. 

Sherlock had launched himself towards the crime scene leaving John walking with his cane and an awkward D.I.

They walked in silence, though John could tell the Inspector wanted to say something.

A brown haired man strode towards Lestrade and John heard him mutter a curse before stopping and waiting for the man.

“Sir, we don't need him for this, he has about as much of an idea about what's going on as we do! And who's this? Don't say it's another Sherlock Holmes or I will go and throw myself in the Thames.”  
“Anderson.” Lestrade said, with warning in the tone. “Look he's come through on everything else. The crime scene is yours when he's finished.”

“I'm coming with you down there at least, I want to be sure he doesn't set fire to the body like last time.” 

“Last time?” John was a bit worried. 

“He said it was for our own safety. And he was right, you saw what happened.”

Anderson grumbled, “Yes well, he could have at least let me have a look before he set the whole thing alight like a bloody beacon.”

John didn't want to sound like an ignorant country boy but he couldn't help but ask, “Why would he need to set fire to the body for safety?” He expected the answer to be something about a disease. He was very wrong.

Lestrade looked John up and down as though gauging his trustworthiness. 

“The last body we found like this... In this sort of state. Someone had placed a demon from the Dark Marshes inside the poor bastard. Drove the man crazy, it was with him for a week before he killed himself in his home. When we got to his house, it smelled and looked like an animal had been living there. He'd written the same sigils on the wall as the ones on this crime scene before stabbing himself in the neck. When we arrived we were lucky we had Sherlock with us, the thing would have taken hold of the husk if he hadn't burned it.” The detective looked towards Anderson pointedly. “If he hadn't been there we might have been killed, or worse.”

They set off again, the scent of blood intensified as they neared the crime scene, it's metallic and thick sent hung in the air like a shroud. Lestrade gestured for John to enter the alleyway before him as he grabbed an oil lamp from a still policeman.

Johns eyes adjusted to the darkness. Sherlock stood over the body of a portly naked man laid on his back, arms and legs spread out, the left hand held a meat cleaver that was soaked in blood and pulped with pieces of flesh. The man's feet and right hand were laying not far from their respective limbs, fingertips and toes already turning a macabre shade of blue.

“Found him only half an hour ago. Someone heard him, doesn't sound like he made quick business of chopping himself up.”

“He's not going to... Change, is he?” John asked, almost anxiously.

Sherlock smiled slightly, “Not this time by the looks of things.” He gestured toward the body and John looked at him unsure of what he wanted. “What do you see?” Sherlock wasn't smiling any more, his face serious and his gaze piercing as he watched John survey the scene. “Tell me.”  
John clears his throat, “Suicide, extreme self mutilation. Possible mental illness, the victim wasn't forced... His clothes are neatly folded and there is no sign of a struggle.”

“Is that everything you see?”

John nodded. Sherlock stepped forward, twisting the knob on the oil lantern. The fire burned brighter in the dark alley and shone more light on the scene.

It was like a study in scarlet.

Blood gleamed on the floor around the man and on the walls like paint fresh from a brush. The strokes were thick but not without purpose or detail. There were meanings behind the symbols but what they meant John couldn't tell.

“He did this with his... Stumps? Oh my God.”

Sherlock knelt next to the pile of clothes and gently rifled through the garments. “This man was a butcher. Happily married for at least ten years. He owns the shop he works in.” He flipped the shoes sole side up, “East side of London, Ludgate Hill if I'm not mistaken; which I'm not.” John nearly scoffed at that in spite of the grim surroundings. “He'll be the owner of the cheapest butchers shop on that street.”

“You can tell all that just from his clothes?”

“And boots, yes.”

There was a scoff behind John and he turned to find Anderson standing glaring at Sherlock. “How could you possibly know all that?”

“A butcher; His apron is in the pile of clothes, there are blood stains, old and new. Married; I found his wedding ring in his coat pocket, clean. He takes care of it and doesn't wear it while working but it still has scratches on from all the years he's had it, he values it, that says happy marriage. The mud on the east side of London's has a red hue because of the brick dust from a nearby factory, the deepness of the red says he works very close to the actual factory. Ludgate Hill its self has three butchers shops. Judging by the amount of money in his coat pocket he is successful, most likely because his prices are cheap.”

“Well how do you know he owns the shop?” Anderson asks sceptically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Because unless he's been stealing from the till he wouldn't have this kind of money. He hasn't stolen the money because he wouldn't have put it in his coat pocket, he would have hidden it somewhere on his person.”

All four men stood in silence, John shook his head practically beaming. “Amazing! Fantastic!” 

“You know you're saying that out loud, don't you?” Sherlock said.

“Oh, right. Sorry. I'll stop.”

“It's fine.”

Lestrade tutted, “Stop flirting and get on with it.” John's face turned bright red.

“Not flirting....”

Sherlock ignored them both and turned to the body, kneeling down onto the cold cobblestones of the alley. He lowered his head and sniffed at the mans mouth, finding nothing interesting he pulled the victims eyelids up and examined the pupils, he moved on. His fingertips probed around the mans heart, feeling the bones that guarded the organ. Nothing. John watched, fascinated, and wondered if this was like watching a composer or a painter create a masterpiece; Sherlock was de-constructing a murder like it was an art form.

Sherlock stilled for a moment and suddenly he turned the right arm gently and searched. He laid the arm back as it had been when he didn't find anything. Sherlock lifted the left arm and lingered, hunched over, examining his find.

“What is it?” John moved around to see what it was.

“I recognise this.” Sherlock's eyes moved back and forth as though he were reading invisible pages of knowledge.

John stopped breathing when he saw what had caught Sherlock's attention.

It was as though the skin on the man's left arm, just on the underside of the wrist, had been branded with a hot poker. The healthy skin puckered around the scar, the symbol looked nothing like John's did but he could tell this was the work of a Witch. His own marking began to freeze in his arm and become weighty. 

John stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. He looked once more at the face of the victim and turned tail and ran when he found dead eyes starting straight at him.

John ran past Lestrade and Anderson, ran past the policemen that secured the area and past the coach that waited patiently for them.

His mind was screaming that he should end his life, a mercy to end it while sane and able as opposed to driven mad and dying in slow agony. He wondered if that was his fate or if his was even worse. He stopped suddenly and leaned over, vomiting against a wall.

His face was streaked with tears and he was wiping his mouth when Sherlock rounded the corner.

“Sorry about that. It was just... It was just a bit too much.” He gave a wry smile. “Hardly a good assistant to a consulting detective.” Sherlock placed a hand on Johns back and gave him a hard long look. He opened his mouth to say something when Lestrade arrived.

“They're moving the body any minute Sherlock, I hope you're done.”

Sherlock looked between John and Lestrade.

“Just go Sherlock, I'll meet you back at the flat.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock looked almost relieved.

A nod from John sent Sherlock running, Lestrade following after.

John stood alone in the dimly lit street, caught his breath and steadied his shaking hand, he held tightly to his cane and stared at his white knuckles.

The doctor walked over to an electric lamp and stood underneath the unnatural glow. He pulled up the left sleeve of his coat and glared at the symbol underneath his skin, he rubbed at it with his thumb. For the second time that night John Watson's breath stilled. The tattoo had changed. He rolled his sleeve back further and devastation crashed down upon him.

The base of the cross had extended, a thin, hard line now consumed the more prominent vein on his arm, it was now an extra inch longer. He dug his nails into his skin, he could feel the metallic mass underneath his fingertips, he scraped his nails across it frantically trying to dig his way to the corruption inside.

A dog barked in the distance and the sound startled him. He looked down at his bleeding wrist.  
“No. I will beat this.” He pulled down his sleeve and walked away from the pool of light. “I will not succumb. I will live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos!


	6. John is warned

Chapter 6 In Which John is warned

Three days had passed since the last body had been found. Sherlock had been consumed by the case, it swallowed him whole and took his mind but with all the cards on the table there was simply nothing for Sherlock to deduce, now it was a waiting game. John had, at first, been alarmed when Sherlock had foregone food and instead opted to sit, stand or lay in various positions around the flat, that included John's bed. On asking Mrs Hudson if this was normal she had only clicked her tongue and said "He'll go after his cases like a whippet after a rabbit but at the end of it he'll collapse in a tired, hungry and happy heap. He'll be fine, it's his way."

The man had dozed off to sleep on John's bed and the doctor didn't have the heart to wake him and slept in Sherlock's bed instead.

It was his first time entering Sherlock's room and the contents only added to the enigma that was the world's only consulting detective. There were objects that spun and rocked on their own accord with no consideration for the laws of physics. One curiosity was a bell, small and silver, that was part of a swirling mobile hanging over the bed, crystalline colours hung from golden thread around it and it rang three times when John entered the room. There were many books, obviously, and papers strewn about on the floor and on the wall in languages John couldn't recognise let alone read. The room was a mess but every object had a function and purpose, nothing seemed purely for decoration.

John threw himself into the sheets and a musky smell that reminded him of forests and mint and bitter-sweet dark chocolate puffed up into the air.

The scents comforted him as John looked at the markings on his arm. The silver had traced a line down and was now only three inches away from the crook of his arm. He had dreamt, the past few nights, but could never remember what had happened in that same dream. He could only remember that it was very dark and very cold

He had searched every day around the different streets of London. The darker alleys, the dingier shops and the depressing pubs had been empty of witches. He was ready to give up and go to the Wizards even though he knew now that they would contain him, put him in quarantine until they could figure out what the curse was. By then it would probably be much too late for him. John didn't fancy spending his last days in a cell of any kind, he wanted to be free even if he knew he would be a dead man.

John leaned over and put the light out then nuzzled down into one of the softest pillows he had ever laid on.

"How could you let me sleep John? I have too much work to do and so little time to do it in! The killer is going to strike again and soon, I don't need to be slowed down by sleep like you people." Sherlock had woken up and marched straight downstairs to have a go at John for giving him a lie in. His dark hair was messy but to John he looked better than he had the night before, the dark circles under his eyes had disappeared and his complexion looked less grey.

"You people?" Johns bewildered look turned venomous.

"Yes, you people, the lesser functioning people. I wonder what it must be like in your dull little brains, content with your toast and your morning paper and your normal days and normal thoughts."

John threw his paper down and stood up from the table, his toast now cooling. He tilted his head to the side and silently glared as he watched Sherlock pace in his dressing gown.

"My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave mental exaltation and you would leave me with a 'lie-in' when there is work to be done!?"

"You practically passed out on my bed, your body needed sleep. You can hardly solve a case without enough sleep, you'll pass out one day, mid chase, and then where would you be?"

"My time is precious and I don't have enough of it to waste it on sleeping in."

"SHUT UP! You- You machine! You have all the bloody time in the world whereas I- I..." John's throat tightened, and he growled in frustration. "You are a selfish man, you don't realise how lucky you are." John pulled his shoes on and tied the laces quickly.

"Where are you going?" Sherlocks face fell and the look of anger fell with it. He stepped towards John who stopped him in his tracks with a look.

"I'm going out." John pulled on his coat. "Wouldn't want to drag you down with my lesser

functioning brain."

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it twice before John huffed and slammed the door shut behind him. Sherlock cursed himself and flopped down onto the settee for a long, hard, sulk.

John knew his way around the back alleys of the city, his militant mind had mapped his routes and catalogued every path he had taken. He walked quickly down the dim streets and past the shops that grew progressively worse. Now he neared what he had deemed the clogged artery. This alley was untouched by the sun, unusually dark and dingy as though sunlight was keen to avoid the area just as he was, but it was the last place he had left to look.

The locals milled by, no-goods if John had ever saw any. Dull haired women showing pale skin lingered at corners and next to darker spots. They watched the clean stranger walk by with interested eyes, but they left him be.

The crooked street held many shops but what they sold was a complete mystery to John, thick dusty curtains covered each window hiding whatever curiosities and monstrosities the shop specialised in. The names of the shops were just as ambiguous; Tofana and Sisters, Steinleys, Kingsfold Collectors. None held promise of anything helpful to John, just sinister happenings.

John had learned a lot in the small amount of time he had been in London. A Witch would not reveal themselves. Being a Witch was a punishable offence and they wouldn't trust just anyone with this information.

No shop he had passed had any sign of what was inside so, with a determined huff, he pushed on the next shop door he came to.

It pushed back.

John fell to the floor with the sheer force and scraped his hands on the old cobblestone road.

The sound of several bells ringing at a high pitch came from inside the shop and the door opened.

"No spells inside!" came a shrill screech, the door slammed once more by an unseen force and John stared at the enchanted building and wondered if he should try the next building or just give up

and embrace the fact that he would die very soon and most likely very painfully.

A light breeze flowed along the crooked alleyway and caressed John's cheek.

"John."

A whisper carried along on the wind.

In the, now empty, alley.

"John."

It was a feminine whisper that played along his skin and pulled him to his feet. He stood, unaware that he had, and almost staggered forward with a determination he didn't actually posses. His feet knew where they were going and though his mind was screaming at him that this could be bad he couldn't help but realise that a Witch had finally found him.

He had wanted this.

Hadn't he?

He slowed to a stop outside of a pub, The Soldier and Mouse.

Pushing open the door, very tentatively, he found himself in an atmosphere he didn't expect.

The interior was warmly lit and it smelled like freshly baked bread and the salt water of the sea. There was chatter but it stopped quickly and many eyes fell on him from the very full tables. A handful of people visibly shuddered as though a cold breeze had claimed them.

A child started wailing in another room and the Doctor began to back away and leave.

"John."

He jumped and turned to the table in the corner nearest the door. A young woman sat at the table, a mug in front of her and one opposite. She gestured to the stool. "Take a seat Doctor, I have bought you a drink and we need to talk."

The pub slowly filled with chatter again, although this time much more subdued. John limped to the seat and watched the woman intently.

She had silvery hair that was held back in a messy bun. She had a friendly look to her soft features and her green eyes regarded him with an intensity that might rival Sherlock's.

"We can't help you."

John looked at her blankly.

"I'm sorry but I have to ask you to stop asking around for Witches, you're putting everyone on edge."

"But... But I need help I have a-" John's breath hitched in his throat and he fought back a growl of annoyance.

"I know you do, John, but none of us can help you. What your problem is... None of us can deal with it. It would be dangerous in many, many ways for someone to try and tamper with your problem." She reached across the table and squeezed his right hand sympathetically, she shuddered. "We would help you if we could but... It's too dangerous. For everyone." She nodded to the mug. "Drink, you'll feel better."

He sipped at the warm, thick concoction, it was sweet and almost creamy. It warmed him like sitting next to a roaring fire in a thick blanket. He sagged with relief as the brew warmed the symbol.

"You're not what I expected." He murmured over the mug.

"No, I didn't think I would be." She smiled warmly while cradling her own steaming mug. "Witches are people John, poor people or people who didn't want to be tied to The Sphere, but still people."

She looked around the pub and nodded her head towards a refined elderly lady sitting with two other women. "Mistress Weatherwax specialises in healing." She nodded to a teenaged boy entertaining young children with, what John assumed was, sleight of hand. "Young Markl is becoming promising with spells of fortune and favour. We're not all bad Witches."

"Do you know what it is? What the curse is I mean." She motioned for him to roll up his sleeve and inspected it from a distance.

"Has it been extending up your arm through your veins?" He nodded and she thought for a moment. "I don't know what it's mean to do but I know it's aiming for your heart. When it reaches your heart it's... done. Whatever is going to happen will happen when it takes your heart. I'm so sorry. You have some time still left."

John let that sink in and put down his drink. "What is it you specialise in?"

"Curse breaking."

"...Oh."

"Indeed."

There was silence as John drained the last of his drink and looked around the warm atmosphere with new vision.

"Go home Doctor Watson. It's not safe in these streets at night." He nodded and stood.

"Thank you." He went to leave but turned around when he reached the door. "What's your name?"

"Sophie." She smiled.

"Thank you, Sophie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diana Wynne Jones owns Sophie and Markl, and Terry Pratchett owns Granny Weatherwax. Thanks for all the kudos guys :D


	7. John is propositioned

Chapter 7 – In which John is propositioned.

The streets had darkened considerably during his time in the homely pub. John had started the considerably long walk home by leaving the crooked streets as soon as he could. The electric lights of London's streets glowed in the darkness, John's shadow morphed with each step, growing and writhing like a Spectre in the sunlight.

A sharp pain pierced through Johns head and he stumbled slightly while gasping.

“What the fu-” a high pitched ringing cut him off and he put his hands to his ears hoping to block out the sound. A pointless exercise as the sound was coming from within his brain.

The ringing tapered off and a voice, as clear as day, spoke within his mind.

“Doctor Watson.” John stood stock still in the empty street.

“Who is this? Who's speaking? How are you doing this?”

An auto-mobile pulled up to the curb ahead of him, a tall, thickly built man stepped out and caught his gaze instantly. 

“Get into the car Doctor Watson. I would make a threat but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you.” The voice sounded amused.

The presence in Johns mind withdrew, the pressure that he was unaware was even there passed.  
John breathed in deeply and climbed inside the car.

A woman sat in the back, she had a stack of papers in her lap, her eyes fixed on the top sheet that was full of notes. His eyes wandered and he found that she was very, very beautiful. She wore a pair of women's trousers, not as uncommon in London as they are in Folkestone, along with a long sleeved white blouse. Her suspenders were thin and black and they traced along her breasts quite perfectly and John found himself trying to start a conversation with this almost kidnapper.

“Hello.”

She looked up from her papers and gave him a quick insincere smile. “Hi.” Back to the paperwork.

“What's your name then?” 

She continued to write and smiled in amusement. “Er... Anthea.”

“Is that your real name?” John raised an eyebrow.

“No.” Another amused smile.

“I'm John.”

“Yes I know.”

John fidgeted in his seat. “Any point in asking where I'm going?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“None at all. John.”

“Ok”

They didn't speak again the test of the journey, the scratching of Anthea's pencil the only noise aside from the rumbling of the engine.

The ride was relatively short; the scenery passed by changing from inner London shops and houses .to the more industrial area by the Thames. The fog was thick and heavy here, covering the floor a few feet up and swirling around the car as it seemed to float through the streets.  
Anthea nodded to John when the car rolled to a stop outside of a large warehouse. He hesitantly stepped out into the darkness, the beams of light from the car illuminated an open door, John looked back hoping for a sign that this was where he should go.

Nothing.

John went forward steadily, through the beam and the weakened fog, his steps felt lighter as he walked towards the unknown but powerful man within the darkened building.

The sound of the engine outside faded away as he entered, his footsteps echoed against machinery that would bring about a new age. Yes, the world was changing just as John's life was coming to an end. 'Sooner or later?' he wondered, as he spotted a man who had spoken to him through his mind. He looked to be in his forties, his pinstriped suit and red tie gave him an almost regal air. His hair was neat and his face serious.. He stood in a beam of light like an actor on a stage. He was facing a single chair, waiting for his audience to arrive.

“Have a seat John.”

John strode into the circle of light and stood opposite the man. “Is all this cloak and dagger necessary? You have my address, I can assume, a letter or a house call would have sufficed.”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet, hence this place. The leg must be hurting you, sit down.” 

“I don't want to sit down.”

He held John's gaze. “You don't seem very afraid.”

“You don't seem very frightening”

“Ah yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity don't you think?” The amusement left his tone and his next question was laced with a warning; answer honestly. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John shrugged nonchalantly. “I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him about a week ago.”  
“The day you met him you moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement at the end of the week?”

John would have walked away at that moment if he had any idea of where he was and thought he had a chance of surviving turning his back on who he believed was a witch. “Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

John had assumed this man had something to do with his curse, that he was interested in Sherlock was something he wasn't expecting at all.

“Interested in Sherlock, why? I'm guessing you're not friends.”

“You've met him; how many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what's that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?” John asked almost disbelievingly.

“In his mind certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his arch enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well thank god you're above all that.” John felt a twinge in his wrist then and resisted the urge to clutch it, instead focusing on his surroundings as the painful sensation passed. It was then he noticed that there was no source for the light, no electric bulb hanging above them, just light from nothing. 

“I hope I'm not distracting you.”

“Not distracting me at all” John snapped his head back from the ceiling. A moment of silence passed.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong but I think that's none of your business.”

“It could be.”

“It really couldn't.”

“It really could, considering your curse Doctor Watson. Oh yes, you think I couldn't tell? As well hidden as that curse of yours is, to a Wizard of my calibre it's like trying to hide an elephant in an empty room.” He took a single step towards John. “You are in my city Doctor. You think I would let such a high level threat such as yourself wander around without several capable eyes on you?”

“You're a Wizard?” The wind had left John's lungs. “You're a wizard and you know! And you haven't helped me... Why?”

“Because we can't help you.” He let that information sink in. “A puppet will always come with strings attached, I want you to report anything that will affect Sherlock to me, you are a dangerous companion but he wouldn't have me taking his new toy away. I'll pay you of course, you could spend your last days living quite comfortably.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“No... I meant... Why can't you help me?”

“This is not a curse for just anyone to break.” John said no more and the Wizard carried on with business. “I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a difficult relationship.”

“No. I won't spy on Sherlock for you.”

“But I haven't mentioned a figure.”

“Don't bother.”

“...You're very loyal very quickly.”

“No I'm not, I'm just not interested.” 

He pulled out a paper folder and leafed through pages and photos that John couldn't make out.  
“Trust issues it says here.”

“What's that?”

“Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?” I trust him.

“You don't seem the kind to make friends easily.” 

“Well we don't.” John fidgeted, he didn't like this psych evaluation.

“I had hoped my warnings would be taken to heart and you would keep a more professional distance from Sherlock Holmes but I can see from your left arm that's not going to happen.” He reached towards John to grab the sensitive wrist with the cold symbol. “Show me.”

“Don't...” A moment passed, John measuring the man's intentions. He gave in and held his hand out, the Wizard wrapped his hand around Johns wrist, squeezing lightly around the symbol. There was a brief feeling of heat, not warmth, that passed through Johns veins but it passed almost instantly. His wrist was released and the man stood back.

“Remarkable”

“What is?”

“Do you understand that curse Doctor Watson? Have you noticed its symptoms and reactions?”

“No... It doesn't seem to have a pattern.”

“As I thought.” He sounded annoyed and rolled his eyes. John was fed up with half answered questions.

“Who the hell are you?”

“A concerned party, Doctor Watson, that's all. Do take care.”

With the obvious dismissal John glared for a moment and turned, he limped out of the circle of light, towards the still open door and the auto-mobile that waited for him.


	8. There is a bath

Chapter 8 In which there is a bath.

The auto-mobile had driven away after depositing John outside of his home on Baker Street. 221 its self was aglow with electric lighting, every light in the house seemed to be on, and so late into the night as well. John dreaded stepping inside; not because of the earlier argument with Sherlock, his anger had dulled to just a bit annoyed.

There was a twitching of the curtain in Mrs Hudsons window and a moment later the front door flew open.

“Oh thank goodness you're back!” Mrs Hudson stood wringing her hands glancing up the stairs nervously. “He's been terrible!”

“What's Sherlock done now?” John ushered her inside and shut the front door behind them.

“I don't know but there's been a lot of banging and he's been shouting and now there's a spot of damp on my ceiling!” She pointed through her open door and John leaned forward to find that there was a huge ring of damp on her ceiling that seemed to be growing as he watched.

“I'll go see what he's up to.”

The walk up the stairs seemed to last forever as silenced reigned all through the house. The front door was an ominous sight, green viscous liquid seeped out from underneath at the speed of a slug. John sniffed the air and the scent left a slight watering in his eyes at the sourness of it.

He toed the door open and his heart dropped into his stomach.

The flat was coated in the crap.

“SHERLOCK!”

The infuriating man was nowhere to be seen from the front door so John slowly waded in through the green slime. It was piled a foot high in some places and only an inch in others (including the ceiling, which was quite worrying), it was also as slippery as ice.

“Sherlock don't even think you can get out of cleaning this up, wherever you are I will find you and you will clean this up.”

Johns arms were out at his sides keeping his balance as he slid into the kitchen. The state he found Sherlock in was both worrying and laughable.

Sherlock had been at the centre of the blast zone of whatever the hell it was he had been doing. His hair was weighed down by the goo that coated his head, his eyes obscured by coated goggles that still dripped with the stuff. His hand was poised in the air over a huge burn mark on the table where a shattered beaker base now sat.

“I said, could you pass me a towel.” Sherlock asked faintly through the film of goo on his lips. He sounded traumatised.

“What? When?” John went to grab the kitchen towel but it was also coated in the stuff.

“About an hour ago.”

“I've been out, you idiot. Whatever this is you need to clean it up because it's going through the floorboards and into Mrs Hudsons.”

“Oh...”

John stopped sliding about the kitchen looking for a clean tea towel and noticed Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle, his hand still hovering above the destroyed beaker. This was all very un-Sherlock like.

A coating of the goo slid over Sherlock's nose and, as he breathed out, a bubble formed and popped with a gross squelch. Raising an eyebrow John slid over to Sherlock's side and prodded him in the shoulder.

“Come on, you need a bath.”

“Oh...”

John frowned and rolled his eyes as he manoeuvred himself through the mass of goo and into the, as yet, untouched bathroom. He set the bath up and the sounds of the creaky pipes pushing hot water echoed through the walls.

He was getting used to skating around on this goo quite quickly and slid through to the kitchen without stopping. This would be the tricky bit; getting Sherlock into the bathroom. The man was a lanky creature and John wouldn't be able to move both of them through the green goo without falling on his arse over and over again. Gripping the back of the kitchen chair Sherlock was sat on he gave it an experimental wiggle.

It moved with ease.

“I can't believe I'm doing this.”

With only a little effort he pushed the chair and Sherlock through the sludge and into the bathroom, his feet kicking up green goo as he slipped every now and then. By the time he got the chair into the bathroom the bath was full and steaming.

“Are you going to move or am I going to have to put you in the bath?”

“Oh...”

“Seriously?” John huffed and leaned down in front of Sherlock and began unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock's warm breath tickled his ear and it sent shivers down his spine.

"Oh..." Sherlock's deep breathy rumble against his skin made him pause and John took a deep breath to recollect himself. His Doctor persona was hard to hold onto when he was, essentially, stripping his attractive flat mate. John detached himself from the moment and clinically stripped Sherlock of his goo soaked clothes and led him into the bath. Although he was unresponsive he was open to suggestion and stepped into the bath and sat down with the occasional "Oh..."

John slid into the kitchen and quickly grabbed a measuring jug while wondering what Sherlock would have to say about this when he came back to his senses. John didn't want to think about what he would have to do if he didn't start acting normal again any time soon, luckily when he got back to the bathroom Sherlck had lowered his arm and turned his forlorn gaze to John as he entered with the jug

"John... It blew up."

"No shit Sherlock. What were you trying to do?"

"Experiment... Sn fifty... Didn't work."

John dipped the jug into the bath and tilted Sherlocks head back gently, his hair was solid and slippery to touch as he poured the warm water over it. The bath slowly tinged green with each rinse.

"Maybe next time you're experimenting you could do it somewhere we don't live and I won't have to clean up. It's a good job you wore your safety goggles." John poured a liberal amount of Sherlocks minty shampoo into his hands and massaged it into Sherlock's hair, which had taken on an interesting slicked back look that John would try to forget before it manifested as a rouge fantasy.

Why shouldn't I indulge myself though? John wondered. I am practically a dead man walking anyway, it's not like I've never been attracted to a man before. Not like I've never-

"Hmmm." John stopped rubbing Sherlocks scalp and looked down in shock

Sherlock had closed his eyes and looked more relaxed than John had ever seen, his shoulders slumped, lips parted slightly as his baritone humming echoed in the bathroom. 

"Don't stop." It wasn't a request but a command as Johns fingers slowed to a stop within Sherlock's hair.

"Right." His fingers resumed their methodical rubbing and Sherlock continued humming in appreciation, sounding almost erotic.

"I'm... Sorry, John."

“That's it. I'm taking you to a hospital. You've seriously fried your brain if you're apologising.”

“You're not... Dull. You're not 'you people'. Quite the opposite actually.” The whole small speech tumbled from Sherlock's lips almost like a sigh. “I know you're having a hard time what with things as they are.”

John stopped rubbing at Sherlock's hair once more, his heart stilled in his chest. Did Sherlock know? Did he know about the curse? He moved so he could look Sherlock in the eye as he answered, he tried to keep the hope from his face. Hope that someone had figured out the hell he was going through. If anyone could figure it out it would be his Sherlock.

“What... What do you mean by that?” He swallowed loudly as his throat had gone dryer than a desert in such a few short moments.

“Well. Afghanistan, then having trouble at home and moving to London... Is there something else?”

Sherlock studied him, John could see his eyes roaming over his face for signs of what was passing through his mind. The sound of water moving echoed through the bathroom as Sherlock lifted his hand out of the water, his fingers wrapping around Johns left wrist, the warmth sent shivers down his spine as it enveloped his whole being like a blanket.

“Dialated pupils: Raised heart rate: Lips reddened. There's something you're not telling me, my friend.” Sherlock had moved closer only inches from John's as he assessed him. Sherlock's gaze wandered to John's lips as he licked at them. “What are you hiding, John?”

Oh god.

John leaned forward those precious few inches, his lips meeting Sherlock's in the heat of the moment and he found himself wondering if he would need to search for a new home as Sherlock stilled and stopped breathing. Just as he was about to pull away Sherlock slipped a wet hand around his neck and pulled him closer.

The sound of Lestrade swearing like a sailor pulled them both away from each other.

“What the fuck is all this?!” followed by a thud that announced to all that Lestrade was now on the floor somewhere in the living room.

“Oh for god's sake.” Sherlock quickly stood in the bath and John darted to the door, hoping to slip out before Lestrade noticed they were in the bathroom... Together. Kissing. Naked.... Well only Sherlock was naked, but still.

John was struggling to remain casual when he walked out and saw Lestrade on the floor, hoping to brush it off. Of course Sherlock ruined that plan when he walked out with a towel around his waist and, what a nice surprise, an erection pitching a tent underneath it.

“We were just-” John spluttered

“Look. I don't want to know.” Lestrade held a goo covered hand up as he looked everywhere but at Sherlock. “Another body. I'll be downstairs. Don't be too long but.... Don't come out with that.”

John looked up at Sherlock as he turned to his room but as fast as the man was, John didn't miss what could only be described as a very faint smirk.

Lestrade quickly left and John stood alone in the goo filled living room knowing the day could only get weirder.


	9. There is work to be done

Chapter 9 In which there is work to be done

To say the cab ride had been awkward would have been an understatement. Sherlock had sat with the ghost of a smile on his face while Lestrade attempted to brief them on their next victim. There wasn't much to go on. Another gruesome suicide, a woman who had sliced herself raggedly from gut to gullet. The sight of the body was enough to stop John from breathing and turn his head as he grimaced.

She, Annabeth Bruson, had drawn large circle on the floor of an abandoned home and filled it with symbols and words in white chalk, none were recognisable to John. She was laid prone and naked on the floor, a sick homage to the Vetruvian man. Her pale breasts were spattered with blood, the gap between them a gaping red maw disturbing the serene look on her face.

Sherlock had knelt beside the body, fingers ghosting over skin and floor as he studied each part, details that John couldn't even fathom becoming part of a large story that only Sherlock could read. The only time he touched the body was when he swept the tip of his finger across her nostril and gave it a sniff. When he opened his mouth John was prepared to be amazed.

He was disappointed, as Anderson, a man who he had only met once and took an instant distaste towards, decided to appear at the doorway and deliver his own deductions. 

“Rache! German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us-”

Sherlock closed the door on Anderson’s, cutting him off effectively.

“Yes, thank you for your input.”

“She's German then?” Lestrade asked, gesturing to the word closest to the woman's chalk dusted fingertips, the 'e' of 'Rache' had tapered off as though unfinished.

“It doesn't matter. What does matter is the powder she inhaled about five hours ago.” At Lestrade's frown he elaborated. “It's a light powder, ground screamer root, used for spells involving the senses. There's a slight scent of roses and dymond dust. This woman used illegal magic to enhance her sexual life, regularly by the state of her iris'.”

“So the drug did this?”

“No, the killer did this. He couldn't hide this for long though, I've just got to figure out what the end game of the spell is.”

“What spell?” John couldn't help the shivers running down his spine. “What end game?”

Anderson returned that moment, sending a dirty look towards Sherlock before addressing Lestrade. “We've been told that a woman filed a missing persons report down at the station recently, the description fits the victim. We've kept the woman at the station, she says she's the missing person's wife. Her name's Rachel.” 

Sherlock's eyes were dark as he took in the sigils with wider eyes. “This is the sixth... One more and it's done.” he muttered so low only John could hear.

“Looks like we've found our killer then.” Lestrade looked relieved and turned to leave the room.

“No. You've found a distraught wife.” Sherlock almost snarled, appearing to John suddenly, and uncharacteristically, a little spooked.

“Yes I'm sure she's a brilliant actress. You're not coming, I've seen your interrogation skills.” With that Sherlock and John were ushered from the abandoned house, left to find their own way home in the middle of the night.

“Brilliant.” John shrugged and looked around the quiet street, lined with houses with dark windows. The only person around was the policeman that stood outside the house, watching them with mild interest. “Where are we?”

Sherlock stalked off down the street suddenly and John let out an exasperated sigh before following after him. “How do you know it's not the wife?”

“This spell, it's big. Months, possibly years, went into creating this. Spells within spells, demons from the Dark Marshes stuffed into humans. No one living a normal life could pull it off, even on the sly. This is the darkest magic I have ever seen. It would physically warp them, they wouldn't even be human.”

Instantly John remembered endlessly obsidian eyes, the handsome man from the beach with his slick voice.

It had to be him.

Sherlock was after him.

He might be saved.

“Where can we find him?” A new determination graced his steps as his posture straightened and he kept pace with Sherlock's long gait. 

“We can't. But maybe Rache can.”

They turned into the alleyways between houses, passing through streets as a light rain slicked the cobblestones.

“I thought Rache was supposed to be Rachel.”

“Rache is a witch, he's mostly harmless for a witch. Sells drugs and potions for things like sex and mood enhancement.”

“Right. Harmless.” Houses began turning into shops and they were once again in the darker part of London. “Why didn't you tell Lestrade about him?”

“Because he's not the witch we're after... And it's best my association with a witch is kept quiet. They're not exactly legal citizens are they?”

Once more they turned down an alley but stopped in the middle, right in front of a solid wooden door. Above the handle there was a small carving, done messily with a knife. It was a small symbol, the sign of infinity. 

Sherlock banged twice on the door and after a moment a voice echoed around the alley, sounding all powerful and a little intimidating.

“Password?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

There was murmuring behind the door, it sounded like arguing then there was a bang, then a thud, like someone falling over a table. A series of clicks followed the silence and the door opened quickly.

“Mr Holmes! What can I do for you?” A small man with greasy slicked back hair, a crooked nose and an Irish lilt opened the door a little bit, smoke creeping around his ankles and out into the night air as he did his best to hide the room from view. There were lounging women and men of all ages, relaxed on mismatched pillows with hookahs and pipes spread around. There was a record player off to the side playing a softly sung melody.

“I'm here about your aphrodisiacs, Rache.” Sherlock said with a slight smile, obviously using his stature to intimidate

Rache paled, John could swear he turned slightly green as he muttered “Oh god....”

Sherlock strode past the traumatised looking man and into the centre of the den. “Ladies and Gentlemen, get out. Go to your homes and burn any products this man has sold you.” John pulled the needle from the record, the scratching noise filled the room and made many of the lethargic patrons jump. “Rache?”

The little dealer stood straight and clapped his hands twice. The smoke cleared from the room, the dim candles burned brighter and the patrons began to gather their things with slow jerking movements.

“Sorry about this folks. Your next ones are on me.” The people filtered out of the room and when the last one left John shut the door, standing in front of it with his arms folded.

“I can explain.” Rache held his hands up in submission, admitting to the unspoken crime that John was unaware of.

“I don't need you to explain, what I need you to do is give me a sample of the altered aphrodisiac you sold to Annabeth Bruson and tell me where you got it from.”

“I don't know who he was, he spoke from the shadows. A powerful witch if I ever saw one.”

“What did he say?”

“He said- He said he'd give me money. Lots. And he did. If I added this stuff to my aphrodisiacs.”

“And you did? Without knowing what it was?” John scoffed from the door in disgust.

“Yeah! It made it better! More potent, smoother to take, why wouldn't I?”

“Do you have any left?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, I tried to replicate it. I have no idea what it is, not seen anything like it before but it works wonders.” He walked over to an oak desk and fished out a small key from his breast pocket, unlocking a drawer and pulling out a small black drawstring pouch. “Stuff doesn't do well in the sunlight, shrivels up faster than your granny in the bath.” Sherlock took it from him and turned, striding towards John. He opened the door and they stepped out into the heavy rain leaving Rache in his empty den.

“Sherlock!” He called, both men stopped and looked back, Rache watching from behind the desk. “There was more magic in that man than the whole of London. Don't come back here again. I owe you no more favours after this.” With that the door slammed, the sound of locks and chains clicking into place as Sherlock and John walked away.


	10. There are dark things

Chapter 10: In which there are dark things

Returning to the flat, soaked to the bone, John and Sherlock had completely forgotten about the green goo until they walked through the front door and were swooped upon by Mrs Hudson. John decided that the woman, as lovely as she was, had a swift ferocity in her that reminded him of a particularly narked vulture.

“All night that damp spot's been growing! Finally dare to poke my head round your door and the sight I find! Well believe you me Sherlock Holmes, you are paying for all the redecorating! My ceiling is green! Green!”

Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal and turned Mrs Hudson towards her kitchen. “Of course, of course. John, could you make our good landlady a cup of tea? I have some clay to make bricks with.” He pulled the black pouch from his coat pocket and tossed it in the air, catching it while grinning like a fool then abruptly leaving John with their angry and confused landlady.

“If he turns my walls purple or anything I'm kicking him out tonight!” She sat at her small kitchen table and folded her legs. “I take one sugar and a generous splash of milk, Doctor Watson.”

The water boiled slowly on the stove, the whistling of the kettle the first abrupt sound in ten minutes since Sherlock had retreated upstairs. John had been listening for any bangs, shouts or explosions and, thankfully, thus far there had been none.

John sighed as he poured hot water into the tea pot and watched the loose leaves swirl as they steeped.

“You're in love.” John didn't move. “Don't deny it. You've been sighing all month.” John sighed and placed the tea set on the table and sat down heavily in a chair. “Just as I thought.” He silently poured Mrs Hudson's tea and added milk and sugar as he contemplated his answer, if any.

“It doesn't matter.” His whole left arm was cold, the cup of tea he poured himself did nothing against the chill in his hand as he cradled the china.

“Don't sell yourself short John. He's a great man but so are you.” She leaned forward, swirling her tea around the cup almost consiprationally. “Indulge an old woman. Let me read your tea leaves. My mother taught me, sometimes it's quite accurate.”

John huffed a laugh, a lot of the women in Folkestone enjoyed the practice, especially when it came to foreseeing romance. “I don't think you'll get anything interesting from mine.” He turned the tea cup in his hands three times anti-clockwise and finished off his tea. Before he could glance down at the leafs he heard a shout from upstairs.

“JOHN! Damn it all to hell.. JOHN!” 

“Oh dear...” Mrs Hudson had stood quickly from her seat and walked to the kitchen door glancing anxiously at the damp spot on her ceiling. John passed her by and ran up the stairs, sensing the urgency in Sherlock's call.

“What's happened?” He asked as his eyes scanned the room for any danger. The only danger in the room was a few heaped piled of pale green... something. The goo from earlier had shrunk and solidified in little piles around the room looking like giant versions of something a child would pull from their nose while their parent wasn't looking.

“Nothing's happened. And nothing is going to happen. I can't figure out what this blasted plant is.” Sherlock stood at the table, looking through his microscope. “Whatever this is it's as rare as a blue star fallen on the fifth Monday of May.”

“What?”

“You need to take it to someone that can... help.” The word help was ground out through his teeth. “No. No, it needs to be done. It needs to be done now and He will know more about it than I do.” He turned to John, an almost eerie smile on his face. “You can go for me!”

“It's the middle of the night!”

“That's all right, I don't mind.” Sherlock strode over to John and slipped the pouch of dried plants into John's hand along with a small business card. “Off you go and don't dawdle.” With that he was pushed out of the flat and onto the stairwell again. Mrs Hudson looked round the banister from downstairs.

“Is everything normal up there?”

“As normal as it will be.” John huffed. Mrs Hudson let out a sigh of relief and went off into the kitchen. The doctor glared at the door before glaring at the card in his hand. His glare slid into a look of amazement as he turned the card over in his hand. The ink was changing colour, every colour of the spectrum slid through the ink in every shade imaginable.

O s t a n e s C l u b

He turned over the card.

It was blank for only a moment until ink flowed like colourful rain down glass to form the words,

D o c t o r J o h n W a t s o n

A moment later the words disappeared to be replaced by the words

P l e a s e H o l d

A moment later John Watson disappeared.

In the silence he left there was the sound of clinking tea cups and serene humming. The humming was broken by a gasp and Mrs Hudson stared down into John's tea cup and into the eyes of a human skull formed by black tea leaves. She quickly swilled the cup out in the sink as though washing away the terrible omen would make life better. If only things were that simple.

John Watson reappeared. None the worse for wear but rather annoyed at being pulled this way and that through a business card. 

The room he was in was plush to say the least. A grand entry room if he had ever seen one; paintings lined the walls, a soft chair to his right that he would guess cost more than a year of his earnings, the carpet had a spring to it that he had never felt before except in fresh grass. The room only had one door and it opened slowly.

An elderly butler hobbled in and closed the door behind himself, so gently that there wasn't even a click.

“Doctor Watson,” He whispered, “If you would please follow me. Do not speak outside of this room.”

With that the old butler opened the door silently and hobbled out, not even checking over his shoulder to see if John followed. In the hallway there were numerous doors. One was open and contained several men who were reading books in absolute silence. The silence was disrupted by the unfortunately loud sound of a man sneezing, he earned several glares immediately and sank an inch further into his seat.

After a short walk across the springy carpet the butler stopped and opened a door that had a shining plaque on it reading “Strangers Room”. John walked through cautiously but unafraid, Sherlock had sent him here. He wouldn't send him knowingly into danger.

But maybe he didn't know.

John's heart gave a hollow thud that vibrated in his chest. There, sitting comfortably in a plush chair, was the man from the warehouse. The wizard. Sherlock's enemy.

“Do sit down Doctor Watson you're making the room look untidy.”

After the exhausting day he had John chose to sit down, uncaring that this man could be dangerous. Since the damn curse his life had been dangerous. Nothing had been as comfortable as this chair though, maybe Sherlock's bed had been.

“Sherlock sent me.”

“Of course he did. How is my dear brother today? Caused quite the mess back home didn't he.”

“Your... your brother?” John leaned forward to get a better look at the man. There was no obvious family resemblance, except the height but that's where similarities ended. “He's never mentioned you.”

“No.. He wouldn't. There is sibling rivalry, Sherlock was always throwing his toys out of the pram, so to speak. I wonder what his latest toy is doing at the Ostaines club.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully and eyed a jam scone sitting on the side table next to his chair. “You are fortunate I named you as an associate of Sherlock's or the card would have transported you over the Thames. Why are you here Doctor?”

John pulled the pouch from his pocket and tipped some of the contents onto his palm, it looked like black tobacco. “He says you would know what this is.” 

The wizard raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, taking a pinch from the small pile. He held it up to his nose then rubbed it between his fingers, grinding it into powder quite easily. He spoke two indiscernible words that were lost to John's ears that had popped at that precise moment. The powder ignited and disappeared instantly in a flash of blue flame that left behind a small cloud of grey smoke, it lingered like a dark cloud on a sunny day. 

“This is possibly the most lethal and dangerous substance in London at the moment, Doctor Watson.” There was a heavy pause as John waited for more. “I believe this is the root of a black orchid grown deep inside the dark marshes. To grow one is an evil deed. The fertiliser is ground children’s bones and the blood of the pure is its water, no sunlight must ever touch it or a good deed even considered near it.”

“...What is it for?”

“Binding a soul.”

It went deathly quiet after that, John hardly knowing why one would want to bind a soul but knowing it was an evil thing. Sherlock's brother sat watching the cloud swirl on itself as it waited suspended in the air, his lips were a thin line. John stood to leave, his information gathered he had no reason to stay. Before he reached the door, the wizard spoke some very powerful words.

“They found some in the bullet you were shot with.”

His arm instantly felt heavy and cold, his tongue like lead in his mouth and his vision almost tunnelled.

“I can only assume it didn't work; you're still here and sane. But... Short of a miracle, John, I don't expect you to see a pleasant afterlife.”

“So that's it then?” He didn't turn, he spoke only to the dark wood of the door. “Just give up. This witch is too untouchable. Curl up and die... Thank you for not leading me on with hope.”

He wrenched the door open, it banged against the wall loudly and echoed through the quiet club.

“Hope is your best weapon John.”

John didn't stop, the soft carpet did nothing to quiet his angry march through the hallway and he easily found the front door, its frosted glass showing a darkened street. He flung that door open too and slammed it shut behind himself, not sparing a look back at the seemingly dilapidated building he had left.

The cold air of the night did nothing for his head and aggravated his arm. It felt much heavier and he could now feel the solidified veins creaking as he moved his arm. His limp returned with a vengeance and he missed the cane that he had slowly abandoned in his joy of a more fulfilled life.

But his mind. His mind fared worse and filled with dark thoughts, almost darker than the shadows that followed him. They dodged street lights and warm windows as John walked through London aimlessly. They played with his shadow and melded with him so subtly that he didn't realise how dark his thoughts had become until he stopped still in the middle of the dark road and wondered when the world became so unbearably light.

The lit windows and streetlights were too bright, like a thousand suns that burned his eyes and made him cringe away.

That's when he saw them.

They had circled him.

They batted at his shadow and he felt every shadowy claw on his skin, they pulled and pinched and bit until John was on his knees. His mouth open in a soundless scream as he curled in on himself. The darkness swallowed him up and the last shred of hope was like a single match in the dead of night. The lightest breeze would blow it out and leave him stranded in the black and endless sea of dread.

But then he came.

He was alight from within.

Sherlock ran toward John through the shadow covered street, every step he took burned away at the darkness sending it away like a scared beast. John watched with disinterest as his only friend struggled through the shadows as though it were a physical force.

“JOHN!” Sherlock swept a hand out against a tendril of shadow that attempted to wrap around his neck, there was an echo of an unnatural screech and then another patch of shadow took its place. “JOHN! HANG IN THERE!” The shadows crept over John's prone form, his black eyes uncaring and still.

And then there were words.

Words John heard and were as clear as a bell on a beautiful Sunday morning in the summer. He remembered his family back home, his friends that still fought abroad, welcoming strangers that became friends.

And Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes standing in front of him in the quiet, peaceful street.

Sherlock Holmes, who gently grasped his wrist and warmed him to the bones.

Sherlock Holmes, who was, without any doubt, a Wizard.


	11. Moriarty

Moriarty.

John woke abruptly, though he couldn't remember falling asleep. He was laying in a cave that was instantly familiar; the cigarette ends and the stacked up wooden crates that were used as seats told him that this was the cave on the beach in Folkestone. Some of the older kids would come to the cave and smoke and drink, shirking off duties and chores. 

The cave dipped in such a way that this area at the back would never flood, but when the tide rose you would be cut off from the exit. One year a younger boy had come to the back and had been stranded overnight by the tide. It wasn't so much being in the cave that scared him, it was more that when his lantern had gone out he had to spend the next few hours in absolute darkness.

John didn't have a lantern, yet he could see the cigarette ends and crates clearer than he would in daylight outside.

He struggled up into a sitting position, his arm ached and his heart strained in his chest, it felt like the muscle was being squeezed in a vice. He gasped, acrid air filling his lungs, as a particularly vicious squeeze made his vision swim. 

There was no water trapping him at the back of the cave, so he pushed himself up with his good arm and leg. The stiffness of his left leg took him by surprise and he stumbled into the cave wall. It was worse than it had ever been.

John hobbled along, using the cave wall as a crutch as he walked through the small puddles of sea water left over from the tide. He bent down at a deeper rock pool and could see his reflection as clear as day.

His eyes were as black as coal.

He stumbled back from the reflection and took a deep breath. He steeled his resolve and pulled back his left sleeve revealing the symbol that stood out like a silver adornment. It trailed further up his arm than he could see and hindered his joints; it was as though his veins had turned to metal, turning him as stiff as a doll.

He massaged his cold heart and ignored the heavy feeling in his chest as he moved on to leave the cave.

When he reached the mouth of the cave he looked over the black sea and endlessly cloudy sky. No moon shone down on him yet once again he could see as clearly as he could in the day.

What John could see gave him pause and made him wonder if going back into the cave might be a good idea. He pressed on anyway.

On the sand stood a group of people, six in a circle all holding hands and standing statue still. There was a gap for one more but John could feel in his still heart that the space was not for him. In the centre was a shape that was covered in a gauzy cloth that shone occasionally, like a starry night. John could feel a pull towards it that he resisted with every fibre of fear and sense in his mind.

Without a sound the black eyed Witch appeared next to him and John started away, almost falling into the sand. 

They faced each other in silence for what seemed like an age before John asked:

“Why are you doing this to me?” It wasn't a piteous question but a genuine wonder.

“I can't believe you haven't figured it out, it must be so dull to be you. I suppose I picked you for your heart and not your mind.” He advanced a casual step towards John. “I might as well tell you now, not long left.” His charming smile would put a sharks to shame. “I want your heart. You beating, passionate and steadfast heart. I want your loyalty and your drive and your ferocity. I want it to make the perfect being.”

He stepped to the side and gestured to the circle, flames sprouted to life from the sand; a small bud in front of each of the six people.

John's stomach turned.

There they were in all their raw and gory glory. Two he remembered seeing.

The Butcher.

Annabeth Bruson.

He didn't recognise the others but their story was the same. Possessed by some magical force and killed by their own hand. Each man and woman wore their tattered and slashed skin, the blood unmoving in the dark night looked like black leeches.

Their heads turned towards him, the circle unbroken. Their eyes were hollowed out, empty sockets stared back at Johns paling face.

“Oh god...” He tried to step back to distance himself but he just couldn't move.

The witch waved a hand and the dead turned back to their places. “Six sins John. Only the deadliest will do. You've met Greed and Lust. Bet you're wondering which of the magnificent seven are missing!”

“What do they have to do with this..?”

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “It's like talking to a child! They're just souls now, souls completely soaked in a life of sin. They make the best glue. I'm going to break them down and use them to bind your heart.”

John barely dared to ask “What to?”, the question forced its self past his lips. It was left unanswered as the lights went out. John found his night vision had gone, all that was left were faint shadows in the dark and the glinting eyes of the Witch.

“When are you going to stop fighting it John? You've made your point but you're going to be mine sooner or later.” His eerily amiable nature disappeared and his next words were a low growl. “I can be a patient man but my patience is wearing thin John.” A soft hand pressed against his cheek, fingertips pushing against his skin stopped it from feeling like a caress. Lips were against his ear, cold breath against his skin as he whispered, “I am Moriarty, and I am coming for what is mine.”

Three things followed the admission all at once.

The sun began to rise slowly over the sea, the sky turning a hazy pink as the clouds receded. Moriarty and his collection of souls turned to sand and blew away with the soft sea breeze, the threatening presence was gone with the rising sun and John could move once more.

The last thing was the beginnings of music. A violin piece carried along the beach from behind John. He didn't need to turn to see the source but he turned anyway.

Sherlock was a short way away, walking along the sand in his usual suited attire but he was barefoot and his feet left perfect footprints in the wet sand. He played the violin in his hands as well as he could when stood still.

John met him half way and stopped an arms length away. The last note rang out as the sun finished ascending the horizon and after a moment Sherlock took a deep breath, lowering the instrument.

He looked so sad.

“You're dreaming.”

“...I think I knew that deep down. What happened?”

“You were attacked. Dark shadows sent by the Witch.”

“Moriarty.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yes. He was here. I think you made him leave. You made the sun rise.”

“I only helped you help yourself. You've been fighting so very hard.”

“I'm tired. I don't think I can fight for much longer Sherlock.”

The sand around their feet swirled in a soft wind, the sun warming Johns side.

John raised an eyebrow accusingly. “So you're a Wizard. That's something you'd usually tell someone, I imagine.”

“I'm not a Wizard.”

“I saw you do magic. Don't deny it.” John's dull heart thudded against his chest. His eyes pleaded with Sherlock to not turn him away. Almost begged for help.

“I'm a Witch.” Sherlock looked mildly guilty and after a moment of silence he elaborated more that John would have asked him to. “I didn't want to go to the Sphere, I didn't want to be someone's pet project or under the thumb of the government. I developed my magic in secret using books my brother Mycroft brought home during the holidays and people I met on the street when I was older. Only Mycroft knows and he wouldn't risk the implications that a Witch brother would have on him. So my secret is safe.”

“I suppose you can't help me either?” John asked without hope as he looked down at the sand around Sherlock's pale feet.

“I have been.” His head snapped up to meet Sherlock's gaze. “The experiment that exploded, holding your wrist where the symbol is, the music I play through the night... All of them are spells to hold it back from reaching your heart while I try to find the Witch. While I try to find Moriarty and kill him to save you.” Sherlock sounded fierce and ready for a fight, the look in his eyes reminded John of the ones he saw around him on the battlefield.

“You know where he is don't you!?” John laughed and resisted the urge to throw his arms around Sherlock and kiss him senseless. “Well wake me up! Let's go!”

“I'm going alone John.” The sombre baritone broke the smile on John's face immediately.

“No. No, absolutely not. He's dangerous and you need every bit of help you can get. We're going to kill him together or I will die trying. I am not staying behind!” John stepped back and turned in a circle looking for a way out of his own mind so he could stop Sherlock from doing something stupid. He cursed as he stumbled, his leg stiffer than concrete now he was unable to stand, and Sherlock caught him as he fell. 

His body was warm and his arms soft and comforting, almost holding John's anger at bay. Sherlock had a hand splayed across John's chest and he felt his heart beating again, a fleshy and warm rhythm as opposed to the tin drum it had become.

Sherlock lowered John to the ground on the sunny beach and John couldn't help but be reminded that this was how it all began. Sherlock knelt next to him and rubbed the symbol with his thumb. The warmth was barely piercing the cold now.

“What's happening?” John gasped out.

“It's too close to your heart for me to wake you John. You're going to sleep now, deeply and dreamlessly so you're safe from Moriarty.”

“Please, no... Don't die. Not for me.”

“You have so little faith in me?”

The sun was like a halo behind Sherlock.

He looked perfect.

He leaned closer, never breaking their locked gaze and brushed his soft cupids bow lips against John's. John sighed into the kiss as Sherlock and everything around him disappeared into a dreamless sleep.

There was a loud crash from the kitchen and John bolted upright in bed before falling back and groaning as his body protested. It was daytime now and he was in Sherlock's bed, numerous charms span silently on the ceiling and a gem refracted light from an unknown source.

John could have stayed there all day but the dream was fresh in his mind. He stumbled out of bed, his left side almost paralysed, and hobbled into the kitchen to confront Sherlock and talk him out of his idiotic idea.

Mrs Hudson greeted him from the kitchen table.

“Oh John! I'm so sorry I woke you!”

“Where is Sherlock?”

“He left two hours ago- Where are you going? You shouldn't go out like that, you're not well!”

John hobbled past her at an impressive speed and was straight out of the front door, glad his Shoes hadn't been removed as he slept. He watched his feet as he took the stairs as fast as he could.

That was when he spotted them.

Polished black shoes, almost like oil, at the bottom of the stairs. His head snapped up into the eyes of the man wearing them.

Deep dark eyes that swallowed him whole.

“Hello John.”

“Moriarty...” John slumped on the stair, his strength abandoning him as he looked into those evil eyes set in the deathly pale face. The vision followed him into unconsciousness. 

And then they were both gone.


	12. Evil is revealed

Chapter 12 In which evil is revealed

The Dark Marshes seemed endless. Sherlock had magicked himself as close to the centre of the deadly area as he could but the natural magics of the place prevented him from getting any closer than the hour long walk he had to suffer.

This place was what people had once called the Moores but that was very long ago. If there had been stones built here, as in Stone Henge, they would have absorbed the power and made it a pleasant place like Stone Henge its self: But this wasteland prevailed, the over abundance of magic ruined the soil of the land and drew in demons. It was constantly cold and damp here, dangerously deep patches of still waters were littered about. Sherlock had stepped in a couple already.

The sun wouldn't pierce the clouds, leaving the land in twilight during the day and pitch black during the night.

As he walked closer to the centre his magic felt erratic, like a wild animal in a cage. The magnetic properties of this area did him no favours. Sherlock soldiered on, his trouser legs soaked to the knees and his socks squelching unpleasantly in his waterlogged shoes.

He had left John in a safe and deep sleep after he had been drawn from the darker corner of his mind. Sherlock had cursed himself for not seeing how deep a hold the curse had on him as it crawled ever close to his heart. Still, Sherlock was impressed, John had held back the curse for so long, others would have been long ago claimed by it.

Shadows fluttered around the peripheral of Sherlock's vision, not daring to come closer but still curious. These demons were like vultures in the desert and they grew in number as Sherlock neared a luxurious house surrounded by flowers. These flowers weren't the colourful variety one would find in a meadow. There were scattered bunches, blood red ones with thorns that looked like teeth, pitch black orchids that grew from a bed of bones, purple ones that had a sickly sweet odour and more.

The house was undoubtedly Moriarty's. It was more of a country manor than a house, it had light grey walls and windows that held darkness behind them. Sherlock knew he was expected when, as he neared the front door, it opened on its own. There was nothing for it but to enter what would most likely be a trap. He harnessed his magic and felt coiled like a spring ready to release at the first sign of an attack.

One that didn't come.

He entered the large entry way and found two sets of grand staircases leading to a darkened upper floor. There were numerous doors on the ground floor but one caught his attention, it was slightly ajar and light flooded through the gap. An obvious invitation.

He pushed open the door.

John Watson stands in the centre of the large hall with a welcoming smile on his face.

His eyes are pitch black.

“Evening.” He smiles widely with teeth that look sharper than they should. “This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?”

Sherlock can't move, something, somewhere went so, so wrong and here John was. Completely lost.

“Bet you never saw this coming.” A sinister tilt of the head and his kind Doctor was only a memory. “What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer.”

“Stop it.” Sherlock whipped his head around looking for the hidden pocket of space he could feel in the room. Someone was concealing their presence.

“I can stop John Watson, if you'd like. Stop his heart.” A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.

“You wouldn't. You need it. Where are you?”

A shimmering started and the room transformed. The hall was no longer empty; a circle of six black humanoid forms stood in an unfinished circle, Sherlock caught glimpses of their old forms, the victims from the London suicides. In the centre was a cloth covered mass that emitted absolute evil.

And a man.

He looked young, deceivingly so. He was pale with dark hair with even darker eyes. His suit was immaculate, a stark difference to Sherlock's bedraggled state with half the marshes clinging to his trouser legs. His eyes were consumed with black that was even deeper than John's.

Moriarty.

“Hi!” His smile was wide and exuberant. “I'm so glad you're here, I was wondering how long it would take you to catch on. Thought I would have to come and pick you up like I did Johnny boy.” He walked forward to Johns side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now the party can really begin.”

John collapsed to the floor with a scream of pain as he clutched his chest with his right arm. His left arm had seized up as though it were being shocked. He clutched at his shirt and threw his head back in torment and Sherlock resisted every urge to run to his side as he had the night before when the shadows had consumed him.

“So that's the end game is it? Take a good mans heart and stick it in a gollum. You're insane, those things never hold an alliegence.”

“Oooh very good!” Moriarty seemed genuinely happy, “What tipped you off? Was it the circle of souls? Or maybe the fact you realise you're the missing piece.”

“Why make a gollum? It could destroy you so easily; it will one day. They always did.”

Moriarty swept his arm out in an arc towards the group and the cloth fell from the form and Sherlock knew then that he was facing a very powerful Witch.

The form sat within the cage was not what Sherlock had expected. Gollums of old were often made of metal or earth, crude humanoid forms with the strength of a thousand man and the wit of a child. They were easy to command, for a time, but eventually the magic would erode and the gollum would kill its maker in it's short lived rampage before it turned back to the element it was made from.

This gollum was horrifyingly human. The body sat rigid in the cage with its hands resting on it's thighs. It was actually a he; he had striking blonde hair with a strong jaw and Romanesque nose. It was naked with pale flesh, it could have been made of stone for it sat waiting just as a sculpture would. A silver spike rested in its chest where a hole was, just waiting to be filled.

It was watching John eagerly.

“This one won't break. With John's steadfast heart within its chest the bond will never break. I don't think a purer heart has ever been used for a gollum. Wizards used to use death row prisoners hearts didn't they. Too scared to kill a good man for the sake of progression.” He glanced towards John who lay still on the floor, head turned so he could stare straight into the gollums eyes. “The sinners souls for binding are the worst sinners I found in London. Lust, greed, jealousy... All present and accounted for. Except for pride. You were a bit late to the party Sherlock but thank you for bringing me a gift. You really shouldn't have.”

Adrenaline coursed through Sherlock's body though he didn't let it show. He was ready for this final fight now, would end the killing and stop John's suffering or die trying. 

John let out a gasp and began to crawl towards the gollum, struggling now that his left side was completely paralysed with the curse. Moriarty laughed and feinted moving towards Sherlock, mocking him, completely sure he could kill Sherlock and take his soul for the binding of John's heart into the creature.

“I'm looking forward to ripping your soul out Sherlock.”

“I'm looking forward to seeing you try.”

With that the battle began in earnest. The two witches jumped back from one another, Sherlock sent a bolt of pure energy at Moriarty that was deflected into the side of the room; it took out a wall. Moriarty retaliated with blades of dark that flew up from beneath Sherlock's feet, his quick thinking saved him from being skewered but while the shield he had formed took the damage he was sent flying into the air.

A burst of wind caught him and held him aloft as he sent numerous blasts of fiery balls towards Moriarty from various locations. They were testing each other.

Their power was an even match.

It was only Moriarty's depravity that gave him the upper hand.

Through the hole in the wall there came masses of demons in all shapes and sizes. 

They all surged towards Sherlock at a small gesture from Moriarty

“Face it Sherlock. You can't beat me.”

In an act of desperation Sherlock called upon his large reserve of magic and harnessed it in one attack. He lifted his empty hands into the air but the effort he exerted hinted at an unseen and heavy force weilded in his hands.

Those demons that surged forward stopped short and swayed for a moment and Moriarty watched with a wry smile. He gave a tut and shook his head.

“You must be desperate Sherlock. I wouldn't do that if I were you.” He sing-songed.

Sherlock grunted with effort when his hands were finally above his head and grasped at an invisible object before slamming it down to the ground. A smoking crater lay at Sherlock's feet but the effect was more than that. From below each demon a column of pure white light, so pure it blinded everyone in the room, when it receded there were only smoking piles of black goo and not a demon in sight.

Moriarty clapped and blinked rapidly as Sherlock stood almost gasping from effort.

“Brilliant light show. A bit too much for my taste though. Allow me to add a bit more shadow to the room.” 

He raised his arms above his head with ease and closed his eyes. Black veins spread across his skin as he mouthed an unheard incantation and Sherlock could finally see past that deceivingly handsome glamour. Moriarty's skin cracked like dirt on a hot day, his teeth spiked as he grit them together in a gruesome grin and he became almost skeletal.

From the pools of goo rose demons that didn't come from the black marshes. These demons looked to be made from the fires of hell, fire glistened in their mouths and under their skin that looked like cracked basalt. The smell of sulphur almost made Sherlock gag but he was beyond revulsion, Moriarty had done the unthinkable.

He had raised demons from Hell.

“What have you done?” Sherlock looked forlornly across the Hell raised demons.

“What a wizard wouldn't dare, Sherlock.”

The creatures turned at once, their glowing eyes landing on Sherlock and their glowing mouths smiling openly.

Sherlock breaks into a run towards John, who is still crawling towards the undisturbed gollum and pushes his hand deep into his pocket.

The Ostanes club card begins to connect with his brother.

Sherlock is so close to John now he can hear his pained grunts over the sound the demons are making as they run so close behind him in a pack like wolves.

His hand reaches forward to grab John's leg and take them both to the safety of Mycroft's club.

His fingers miss by a hairs breadth as he is flung back into the pack of demons by Moriarty's magic.

He looses his grip on the card as he falls through the air, landing on his back staring up into the black eyes of the most powerful and evil being he has ever laid eyes on.

“Oh no, you can't leave yet Sherlock. We're just getting started.”


	13. hearts are broken

Chapter 13: In which hearts are broken

John falls in and out of awareness.

There is darkness. There is the strange sensation of being pulled and squeezed all at once. The restriction of air and then the sudden muggy heat makes him feel ill. But all of these sensations are brief as he looses control of his body. He wonders if he is crawling in his sleep as he sees his own body claw at the ground; the pain is the only real thing.

The icy cold grip that takes hold of Johns heart, bringing it to a sudden stop isn't imagined. The sudden constriction draws an inhuman cry from his raw throat that draws no attention from the battling witches.

It only draws the attention of the stone like man in front of him.

A cold hand settles on his shoulder, firm and not at all comforting. He looks up with difficuly, grinding his teeth as the pressure in his chest increases with each strained movement. He feels like he is falling the moment their eyes meet and a voice in the back of his head whispers, 'finally'. 

As he falls into the cold darkness in a moment that spans a lifetime he feels the need to make peace with his short life. He thinks on his family; his little sister who is going through her own hardships, his parents that loved him all his life despite their fading love for each other.

He thinks of McCarthy, blood seeping through John's fingers as his eyes turn glassy. His own voice shouts through his mind “LIVE DAMN YOU!”

The echo shatters unseen walls and John comes to, this time completely, staring into the too close face of the flawless man. Now he can see the lack of humanity, skin like marble with no blemishes or creases or pores that are tell-tale to an inhumane monster, eyes that are glassier than a dead man's and the silver spike that sits in the hollow of its empty chest.

John lunges forward with a snarl, the creature offers no resistance as John pulls the spike out   
It doesn't move an inch as John slams the sharp tip into the temple of its head. There is a moment of resistance that sends a shock of pain along John's arm and the silver stake heats almost unbearably. Then the sudden crack of bone and the pike slides in firmly and softly through brain matter like a hot knife through butter.

The creature slumps forward, small drops of blood fall from its nose as it stares at John with no expression. The sickening wet squelch as the spike is pulled from the gollums head is accompanied by a spray of blood that covers the bars of the iron cage

John takes a deep breath, the deepest he has taken in too long. The stagnant, hot air is fresh and fulfilling. The weight constricting his heart subsides, lightness travels down his arm and he pulls back his left cuff in time to see the symbol turn into a slightly raised scar.

Screams finally reach his ears through the adrenaline and his loudly beating heart and his heart stops once more.

Sherlock.

John scrambles to his feet, light-headed from the blood rush and freedom, he leans against the bar of the open cage door and feels completely helpless.

Sherlock is lost amid the molten creatures that surround him, though he is still alive. John can tell from the fading light that holds back the dark things. 

He cries out as it flickers and the group closes in tighter. 

Something beside him clatters to the floor.

In shape it was a standard issue M1903 Springfield rifle. The wood was a dark wood, carvings flowed along the gun all the way to the shoulder stock where a large symbol lay.  
This doesn't matter to John.

What matters is that it will fire like a standard issue M1903 Springfield rifle.

John is swift in his movement, feeling smoother than water as he moves with ease. The rifle is a familiar feel in his hands and he automatically pulls the bold back and checks the chamber. A single bullet rests ominously, waiting patiently. With trepidation he realises the markings on it are similar to the ones on the bullet that was pulled from his chest what seems a lifetime ago.

With resolution he pushes the bold forward, the click sounds final and he knows he is about to end either Moriarty or himself and Sherlock.

Stepping free of the cage he takes a firm stance and lifts the gun, the pressure on his shoulder calmed him. He takes a deep breath as he lines up the shot.

His hands are steadier now than ever before and the trigger gives little resistance as he squeezes.

Moriarty falls, dead before he hits the floor.

Triumph is short lived for John.

As the monstrous group melts away he can see there is no light from Sherlock. No protection against the darkness.

He runs, the empty gun thrown to the side, until he reaches Sherlock.

There's no blood. No rise or fall of the chest either. Sherlock's face is relaxed, his body limp and unresponsive as John shakes him.

“Come on Sherlock. Don't do this. Don't-.” John leans forward, an ear to his friends mouth. No breath. He tilts his chin back, clearing the airway as he breathes into him.

John places his hands on Sherlock's sternum and begins to pump up and down.

“Come. On. You. Bastard.” John grunts through thirty presses. No pulse. Another breath. “You. Can't. Do. This.” Another cycle of presses and breath and he knows the splashes of tears landing on his hands are his own, but he doesn't care. “What will it take?! Have my heart! Take my fucking heart! PLEASE! I'M GIVING IT TO YOU!”

Sherlock is too far gone now. John can only rest his head on the unmoving chest of his only friend and almost lover. “It's always been yours Sherlock.” He croaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I didn't even realise I didn't post the final two chapters here. Oops. Here are the last two.


	14. it is the end

Chapter 14 In which it is the end

John sits in the quiet of the flat at baker street, still unused to the strange rhythm in his chest even though it has been a week since Sherlock died.

The silence is hard to understand and he doesn't like it. He can hear Mrs Hudson walking around downstairs, pots and pans being moved and the clink of tea cups. John rubs his chest absently as he looks toward the door to Sherlock's room.

A knock on the door interrupts his thinking and he curses, rushing to the door to open it.

Mycroft.

“I told you to come back next week.” John dead-pans quietly.

“Yes well I thought the quiet would be getting to you.”

John hisses “Keep your voice down! I've only just got him to-” Sherlock wanders in from his bedroom, his bed hair is endearing but his pallor is still unsatisfactory to his live in Doctor. “Go to bed Sherlock.”

“John stop nannying me, I'm just as healthy as you are.”

“You died, I didn't.” John steers Sherlock to sit down, completely ignoring Mycroft who has now moved further into the living room.

“You were just as dead as I was at some point, I'm completely certain of that. It's very complicated magic, sharing a living heart with another. Are you sure you've not got magic in your family?” Sherlock stares at him in a way that has his half heart racing. A blush rises to his cheeks when Sherlock smirks. Ah yes, sharing a heart. Sherlock can feel John's racing heart in his own chest. Smug bastard will probably be teasing me with little flirts just to get my heart going and he will know about it, John thinks.

Of course the loss of privacy was worth the sacrifice.

“If I might interrupt your blatant flirting, I'm still waiting on a debriefing on the situation. You haven't told me the whole story.” 

“Oh piss off Mycroft.” Sherlock mutters, not breaking eye contact with John. He leans in and claims a deep kiss that makes Mycroft tut.

“I'll be back next week.” He leaves and John pulls away from the kiss with a chuckle. 

“You can't keep doing that, we're going to have to talk to him about all of this, he is the government after all.”

“I think I'll keep doing just that, John. We do need to 'recuperate' in peace, after all.”

John's heart races again and Sherlock gives him that damned, triumphant smirk of his. “I don't think I'll ever get used to this.” John rubs his chest again, the strange half rhythm of his heart prominent in the stillness. Sherlock places his hand over John's and smiles.

“We'll get used to it together. I've always been yours.”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been finished for a while, now it's officially finished here.


End file.
